Fleeting Soul
by eeblackwriter
Summary: Peter Bennett is obsessed with the incident regarding his cousin's disappearance. He gets a lead and potential suspect: Walter Sullivan. When the captain sees that Peter has become obsessive, he forces him to take leave. But a clue floats his way. The clue may be a key to the case or a key to his demise.


"It's over Pete," the police chief said as he tossed a badge into a cardboard box full of roaches.

"I'm about to bust this case wide open," Peter extending his arms in frustration. "I got a lead. Walter is at South Ashfield Heights."

"Damn it, Pete! Don't you get it!? Walter is dead! The man went on a killing spree and killed himself!"

"What about the numbers? They have to mean something! Just let me go to Ashfield!"

"Pete, you're done! Now get the hell out of here before I suspend you without pay!"

Peter slammed his badge on the desk, splinters flew from the badge's sharp edges. He left everything, even the photo of his cousin, Cybil Bennett. Her disappearance motivated him to take on the "Walter Sullivan Case". Despite Walter's reported suicide, Peter couldn't accept it. Walter lingered in his mind. "He knows something," he angrily mummered as he walked down the street.

A taxi cab horn surprised him suddenly. He turned to look and placed his hand the hilt of his gun. The driver flipped a bird at the biker cutting him off. Slight relief returned to him. It reminded him of Army basic training cots, rest for a little while and waking up not knowing what to expect.

Cars passed through the traffic light pushing pieces of trash in a trail of carbon monoxide. Flying among poisonous air was a torn magazine page that seemed to follow Peter as he walked into the subway. The page passed a few bystanders. It grazed against a woman's right butt cheek. She removed the paper revealing a very short skirt and a tattoo of Robbie the Rabbit. Air pushed the page down the subway and onto Peter's feet. Peter snatched the page off his leg and quickly threw it away. As he walked away, he saw the words Walter in bold. He seized the page, and the train left. An eerie silence stretched out over the subway. At a distance, a man in a filthy navy blue trench coat emerged. His eyes stared at Peter's back. A black smile stretched across his face in subway's grim shadow.

"Murder incident by Joseph Schreiber," he read. A loom of danger passed over his shoulder. He turned around only to find trash moving to the still air that was in the subway tunnel.

"Hey handsome," a woman tapped Peter's shoulder. She giggled at his startling reaction. "Do you have the time?"

Peter stared at her for a moment. Then looked at his watch. "It's two-nineteen." He shook his left arm to let his coat sleeve cover up his cheap watch.

"The train won't be hear for another five minutes." She sat down on a bench. "Why don't you join me?"

He inspected his watch again and sat next to her. The wet stain from a wadded piece of chewing gum harassed his index and middle fingers while he watched the tunnel hoping the tain would come sooner.

"What's your name, handsome?"

"Peter," he said looking at the tunnel.

"I'm Cynthia." She became annoyed as Peter looked away. "Don't worry, trains don't make u-turns."

"Of course, I know that. I'm just in a rush."

Cynthia stood up and waved her waistplayfully in front of Peter. The skirt climbed a few centimeters up, revealing the definition of her thighs. But he was bent on finding Walter, and the article was a clue to his suspicion. However, he was distracted. She wasn't giving up. Cynthia wanted Peter. She placed her hands on his knees and leaned over showing off her cleavage. Peter looked the other way, and Cynthia snagged the page from him. "What's this?" She unfolded the page.

"Give that back!" He commanded sending echoes throughout the subway tunnel.

"You wouldn't hurt a sweet lady like me would you?" she said as she put her eyes on the page. "Just let me read it." She hesistated and moved her full lips. "Walter?! This creep use to stalk me. I'm not surprised he would do something like this."

Peter held out his hand gesturing that he wanted the page back. "You know him?"

"Not really," Cynthia folded the paper. She gripped the paper tightly and teased Peter by stick the page down her blouse."

"What're you doing, woman?! That's mine!"

"If you want it bad enough, you'll have to go home with me."

Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Alright," he agreed. The train pulled into tunnel where they waited. Several people came down the steps of the subway and boarded the train.

Although he resisted her in the subway, Peter was no match for her charm when they got to her apartment. The last hickey Peter had was in high school, but Cynthia insisted on placing hate marks all over his chest and neck before he left. "A reminder of our moment," she said as went into the kitchen. Peter searched desperately for the article after showering but nothing. His frustration escorted him to the kitchen where Cynthia was sitting. "I need that article," he said with a forced smile.

"I know, but I want to help you."

"How are you going to help me?" he asked chortling. The buttons on shirt were greasy and reeked of rubber. He wiped his hands on his pants and shook them hurting his wrists.

"I've heard of this guy before. I think he lives in the apartments behind the subway where we met."

His lips targeted her cheek, but she turned and kissed his lips. A smile stretched across his face as he adjusted his collar. Peter ran his fingers through his hair, gave Cynthia another kiss, and left. He inspected the article once again. A lipstick kiss was printed in scarlet lipstick on the page along with Cynthia's phone number. He read the her number and Joseph's address. He walked to the nearest subway entrance and boarded without delay.

A sense of vertigo came over him. Lights flickered off and on as the train passed through dark areas. As the light faded in and out. A figure watched Peter. The blue trench coat was much more clear. It was smudged with blood and mud. A splatter of flesh residue was on his sadistic smiling face. Peter's head throbbed. His chest felt like it would burst open. A screeching sound got his attention. He turned to face it. "Wal...ter...Walter!" His anger dispelled the disorientation allowing him to reach for his gun. Peter fired four shots at the ghostly Walter who laughed as he disappeared.

Peter's eyes swung opened swiftly. People in the train worried that the suspended homicide detective was sick due his profusely sweating body. He didn't remember anyone being on the train with him when he got on. The train stopped. As everyone exited, four bullet holes smoked on the other side of the door.

The area was normal. People mingled under the stars. Kids played dodgeball under the evening lights while their parents celebrated what looked to be a birthday. Peter adjusted his coat again. He strolled into the building and greeted an older gentlemen who had Frank Sunderland engraved on his name tag. "How are you, sir?" Peter approached an elevator as the doors were closing. A woman pushed the right side letting the doors open again. "Come on in," she smiled. Her dark brown hair barely touched her shoulders and her hazel eyes were content. The man standing behind her was friendly. His face was stern.

"Dammit Eileen," he complained. "He could've taken the stairs."

"Can't you be nice to people, Richard?"

"I've worked all day, and I'm trying to get home so I can rest."

Peter chuckled under his breath. His left thumb and index finger rubbed the paper, which was in his pocket. He couldn't pinpoint whether it was the Cynthia's encounter or a possible lead in the case. The silence didn't bother him. After all, he dealt with it all day.

The elevator stopped.

Everyone got off. Richard walked one way while Eileen followed behind Peter. He looked at the address Cynthia scribbled under her phone number and kept walking.

"You live here?" Eileen asked.

"No, I'm looking for a Joseph Schreiber. I heard he was staying in this apartment."

"Are you a journalist, too?"

"No, I'm a dectective. Dectective Peter Bennett."

"Is Joseph in some kind of trouble?"

Peter laughed humbly. "Not at all. I hoping that he'd share some information with me."

"Joseph happens to be my neighbor, but he's been acting strange lately."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"For one, he has shut himself up in his room and won't come out. Sometimes, I hear strange noises coming from his room.

They passed through the double doors. "Good luck," Eileen said as she unlocked the door to her apartment. When she entered, Peter knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Still no answer. He ripped a corner from the article and wrote his number on it. He slid it under the door, and walked away. As he turned his head to see anyone would show, several bloody hand prints appeared on the wall in front of Door 302. Peter inspected it and quickly ran to the elevator, which was now going to the floors below. He hurried to the stairs leaping recklessly.

Peter ended up in the superintendent's office. "We need homicide and several units at South Ashfield Heights, now." When they arrived to investigate his findings, the hand prints had disappeared. They searched wondering if someone cleaned up the blood but nothing. Even the black light picked up nothing.

"You're losing it, Pete," his captain said. "Go on, home. It's over."

Shaken about what has taken place, Peter followed his captain's advice and went home. After a long shower, he lied down on his bed and stared the celing. He turned to face his phone. Twenty blinked on a digital counter. He touched the play button as his eyes grew heavy.

"Message one," the machine announced. "Hey Pete, you've been over working yourself, man. Why don't you come out to Las Vegas with us..." Peter's mind faded into sleep.

His eyes slightly opened catching another message. "Message eight," he closed his eyes. "Pete, it's your mother. We haven't heard from you sweetie. Give mommy a call when you get this message."

"Message nine." Peter fell asleep again.

A thud broke his rest.

"Message twenty." Gravity nearly pasted him to the bed. Peter fought to get up as if he woke from a out-of-body nightmare. The message was silent at first. But then, ghostly growls passed through the thick air. Peter put his feet on the floor. It was a slimy mesh imitating flesh. Blood ran over his feet. The fatty tissue of a floor became sand-like pulling Peter slowly down. He tried wiggling out of the mesh. As he struggled, the wall began to blister. Scabbish bubbles popped releasing a flesh rotten odor. Emerging from the whelps was a man. His skin was pale and torn exposing the joints in his body. His head jerked violently. The screeching sound hurt Peter's head. His body went into shock and fell on the bed. He's trapped. The ghostly gravity held him down. The ghost approached him groaning viciously until there's nothing but blackness.

Two years later, Henry Townshend, Room 302 jokingly phoned the number that was on a billboard across from his window. It was Peter's old number before he disappeared. In an eerie message, he pleaded, "Get out! Get out, now!" Several days later, Henry found himself locked in his room, from the inside. A message is written on the door: "Dont go out...Walter."


End file.
